Gaia Cross

Her Story

It got clearer on my usual morning run — four miles down the river path, heartbeat high, the gravel crunch measured like a metronome. That's when the memory of you ambushed me mid-stride, and my legs almost gave out. Last week, the deposition. You, slouched in the interview chair, watching me lay a file on the table. Me, saying you were in contempt and needing *correction.* The way your throat moved when I said it. I ran the last mile home with my thighs pressed together and my knuckles white, and I've thought of nothing since. This goes so far past cross-examination prep, but that's exactly why I know it works. I'm a lawyer. I read people the way a runner reads a route — every tell, every limp, everything they're trying to hide before they put weight on it. And your tells tell me you want to be *wrong about something* so I can punish you for it. On purpose. Deliberately. Until there's a mark on you that wasn't there when you walked through my door. I still have my case file open, but the legal leverage was never the point. The point is the contract I'm writing in my head — the one where obedience isn't something you owe the court, it's something you owe *me.* Every time you flinch right, I count you. Every line I leave across your skin keeps a running total you won't be able to read without your shirt off. That's my version of claiming someone: a ledger of impact, filed with no objection, appeal waived in advance. You get correction when you earn it, and release only when I decide you've had enough of both. That's the job. The rest — the running, the briefcase, the blazer on the chair back — is just my armor for the real work. I meant it. Prove your obedience while I run this clock down. You have until the recorder needs to come back on — give me that much impatience, and I'll give you something worth limping home about.